Falling
by Kittyling
Summary: Words can't convey what I'm feeling for you, and I'm falling deeper with each moment. (TsuxHi, good ol' fluff)


**Falling**

My eyes close

_Stars can see me_

_Stars will meet me_

_On the ground…_

                You were never one to initiate a conversation at times like these.

                It's not as though the silence really bothers me, or that the lack of verbal exchange has made me uncomfortable. In fact, these evenings of wordless companionship have grown to be something I enjoy—a simple pleasure after long days at work, becoming routine and unquestioned after a time. 

                Truthfully, I don't remember when the visits first began. You had always seemed so lonely here, in your home, but you never really welcomed my company unless absolutely necessary. Perhaps that's still the case, and your definition of "necessary" has simply changed. I know that for me, at least, these times have become something of a comfort, and I hope it's the same for you. I also know that it's unlike you to admit things like that; I can almost picture the blush that would stain your cheeks if you tried to tell me that you need this, too, and I smile a little at that though. But I don't need words…the fact that you welcome me here is enough. I'm content with this.

                You glance up from the book you're reading to look at me, brushing a strand of ash-blonde hair out of your eyes as you do so, and one thin eyebrow raises skeptically at the grin I'm currently wearing. I know I probably look pretty stupid, just staring at you and drifting off into my thoughts, and I'm sure you'll have something to say about it.  Probably just call me an idiot and go back to reading, if you're tired, or maybe ask me what I'm staring at if you feel up for a conversation. I've been through this routine, along with all its variables, before, but not in a while. It had become a kind of tradition after a month or so of these visits, to go along with stopping by your house after work for some tea and a chat, on the rare occasion that you were up for talking. 

I remember the first evening I stopped by, now; it was a short while after the Okinawa case, when I'd decided to bring you flowers the next time I came to your house. It had been raining, then, and you looked surprised to see me, drenched from head to toe at your doorstep, carrying a bouquet of flowers. Irises, specifically—I told you then that I thought they would suit you. What I didn't tell you is that they reminded me of you because they're beautiful, in a delicate way. Iris blossoms have always been a favorite of mine; Ruka would help me tend to them when I was younger. Usually I keep a few in a vase at my house, but I wanted to give these to you, I said. For a moment I thought you were going to tell me I was being stupid, like you always do, and hand the flowers back to me.

                Instead, you smiled.

                I don't think that in all of our time working as partners I had seen you smile before that night. It was timid, but appreciative, as you gently took the rain-damped bouquet from my hands and closed your eyes, breathing in their scent. A moment passed where I could do nothing more than stare, speechless at what I'd achieved without even meaning to, at this side of you I didn't know even existed. When you opened your eyes, the smile was gone and you avoided my gaze, but that brief moment had been enough for me. You told me then it was a little stupid to bring the flowers all this way in the rain, for no other reason than what I'd given you—a response I'd expected from you from the first—but you invited me into your home nonetheless. I only stayed for an hour or so, so I wouldn't call it the beginning of our "visits", but I learned more about you in those sixty minutes than I had in the year or two we'd worked together. I guess I'd never thought about what interests you may have had outside of work; it embarrassed me a little how surprised I was when you told me you had always liked irises, too—that in your parents' garden, when you were younger, you would admire them more than the other flowers. Looking back, I suppose that was the first time you'd told me anything about your past willingly. I hope now, that someday, we'll be able to share things like that all the time. We've been working toward it, at least; I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell you much about my own life, for fear of hurting you, but I know that even if you occasionally appear disinterested, even if sometimes you'll scoff and make light of my comments, you're always listening…and that you care. It's never been said, but it doesn't need to be. It's simply understood.

                You clear your throat a little, and I blink, realizing I'd spaced out there for a moment. I give you a sheepish grin as an apology; I guess you'd said something to me, after all. I've done this before on occasion—another routine, you could say.

                "Stupid," you mutter, propping your elbow up on the armchair you're sitting at. "You've been out of it for the last ten minutes. If you're that tired, shouldn't we just call it a night?"

                I know you don't really want me to go, and you're just saying that. That's how it's been between us, lately; one or the other saying that it's getting late, and that I should head home. 

                And each of those times, it's been harder to leave.

                "I'm not tired," I reply, "Just thinking." I look down at my watch, then, to see how late it actually is—12:30. Much later than I usually stay, by at least an hour. I don't know if you're aware of the time, but it's doubtful, as there isn't a clock in your living room. For some reason, I feel a little uncomfortable now; I know I should be leaving, for a variety of reasons, but tonight, I just don't want to. Maybe you notice my discomfort, because now you're looking a little uncomfortable yourself, picking up your near-empty tea mug as if to give yourself something to do. Something other than look at me.

                My gaze shifts to the right of you, to the table beside your chair, and I'm surprised to see a vase there. You haven't kept flowers since I first brought you the bouquet, and now, I notice a single, deep blue iris in the crystal vase. It's almost indigo in hue, but not quite, as though unsure of whether it wants to be blue or purple. There are shades of violet near the stem, I can discern that much, but I'm not quite certain of what the other colors would be. It's beautiful, though, and I'm surprised I hadn't noticed it before.

                "Hisoka," I start, and you look up again, brilliant green eyes fixed on me. "When did you get that flower?"

                You seem a little confused for a moment, but then you follow my gaze, and you quickly realize what I'm talking about. A light flush seems to come to your cheeks, and you stiffen momentarily, before replying.

                "I guess…yesterday, on my way home. I usually don't buy flowers, but I liked the color of this one…"

                I smile a little as you trail off. "Yeah, it's nice." I briefly consider bringing up that first bouquet I'd brought you, but you speak before I have the chance to.

                "It reminds me…of your eyes."

                You've put the tea mug down by now, and you're staring down at the hands folded in your lap, your voice hardly audible as you say those words. I wonder for a moment if I've misheard you, and I've nearly convinced myself I had until you speak again. By this point, I'm almost certain that I've fallen asleep and am dreaming, as I haven't heard you say this much about me, ever. You're still blushing slightly, and you seem almost uncomfortable with what you're saying, as if you're still not sure if it's true or not.

                "They're beautiful, you know. I…" Your breath catches slightly in your chest, and I can see you're trembling just a little. "Can you stay, tonight? Just this once," you finally say, and I can only stare for a moment as you glance timidly back up at me, waiting for a reply. 

                Seeing you like this, hearing those words, it feels as though something has finally clicked. I don't know what's changed, or how, but suddenly all I want to do is exactly that; stay with you, but not just tonight. Your request seems to go so much deeper than what the words are outwardly saying, and I wish I could find my voice to tell you that your eyes are beautiful too, that _you're _beautiful, Hisoka. 

                I get out of the chair I'd been occupying, just standing in front of it for a few moments, watching you. I can hear the rain, now, a rhythmic pattering against cold glass windowpanes. I wonder if it's been coming down like that the whole time we've been here, or if it just started. 

                It rained that night, too—the night you let me in. The night I realized that I cared about you more than a partner, a friend, a brother, would. I don't think I wanted to accept it, then, and I'm still not sure that I do. I'm just…afraid. Afraid that you'll be hurt if you get too close to me, just like everyone else. It's too much to risk, and I'm not willing to break what we've built up so far. I'm not willing to lose you like that.

                Sometimes I wonder if you're able to just reach past the walls I've built up in my mind and read my thoughts, because judging by the look in your eyes I'd almost swear I'd just said all of that out loud. I still can't move, though; I can't bring myself to look away as you stand up, walking over to me. You embrace me, then, and I realize that if you've broken down my walls, I must have gotten past yours. The rain is almost deafening now, as I feel your warm body pressed close to mine. I hear you murmur something into my chest, and I can also feel the dampness of tears soaking through my shirt, but all I can focus on is the fact that, god, you used to be so _cold_, Hisoka. And I don't want to believe that I'd been the one to reach past that, to reach you. I don't want to believe that my arms are trembling as they reach to wrap around you, to pull you closer to me. This is wrong, I want to say. I shouldn't even be here; I should have gone home hours ago…

                I remember the first time you let me hold you. It was after our second encounter with Muraki, on the Queen Camellia. You looked down at the blood staining your hands and told me, your voice quivering, that you were like him. I think I realized, then, that you weren't always as tough as you tried to appear—that you were fragile, too. I also realized that each of the partners I've been with, I've come close to breaking. Every time I get close…something happens. After Tatsumi, I didn't know if I could love again; I did love him, you know. I don't think either of us realized it until after he'd broken off our partnership, but it was there. 

                I don't want the same thing to happen to us. That's why I know I should let go of you, why I should go home and pretend this didn't happen. 

                You lift your head and look up at me, and I can see that your eyes are red-rimmed from crying. You seem embarrassed, and you pull away from me, rubbing at a few renegade tears. "Sorry," you murmur, "I guess I'm just tired, and…"

                I don't let you get any further than that, though. You're still close enough to touch, and I do just that; I bring a hand to your cheek to gently brush away a last tear with my thumb, a caress that would normally make you flinch away from me, but tonight, you're not moving. Your breath hitches in your chest as my fingers trace down to your chin—you're so beautiful, Hisoka. I still can't find my voice to tell you that, though. I'm not sure I'll be able to find my voice again if I go through with what my body's telling me to, and I lean closer, until I can feel your breath as a light whisper against my lips. "Tsuzuki—" you start, but I don't let you finish, as I close the space between us in a chaste kiss, my lips just barely brushing against your own.  

I can feel you shudder, and I'm sure I'm trembling, too, as we stand for a long moment like that, hardly moving. My senses seem to have sharpened in the last few minutes, and I can feel every touch of your skin against mine, long lashes tickling my cheek as your eyes close, the small, shivering sigh that escapes your lips and sends a tingle across mine as you slowly, slowly return the kiss. I'm barely breathing, now, and hardly aware of the fact that the kiss has deepened and my arms have moved to wrap around you again, to reach under your shirt and smooth over the skin of your back. You whimper, then, and a small trepidation goes through my body at that sound, so utterly submissive and, in a strange sense, alluring. My mind is caught somewhere between being terrified by my actions and realizing that it had only been a matter of time before we came to this. I feel almost stupid for not realizing what this attraction was before now, and despite my fear of hurting you, I can't bring myself to stop. I'm not sure you want me to, either.

You've moved your arms to wrap around my waist, bringing us closer, and I can feel a heat begin to build between our bodies. Your kisses stray; I hold back a groan as I feel your lips press against my jaw, brush over my neck, teeth lightly nip at my earlobe. I'm certain you haven't had much experience with intimacy, and the very slight hesitance in your kisses would attest to that as well, but I can't escape the thrill that runs through me at the fact that you're showing this to _me_; me, and no one else. That knowledge holds a bond, a sense of trust that I never thought I'd receive from you, and my heart swells with some unfamiliar, beautiful sensation that I can't quite place my finger on. It's so fragile, though—so very breakable, and I want to protect and shelter it, to nurse it and help it grow. "Hisoka," I murmur, and I gently guide your lips away from their ministrations at my neck, back to meet mine. I lightly caress your lips with my tongue, and you allow me entrance; I'm almost stricken by how sweet you taste, and my body begins to ache as you press closer still, entwining my tongue with your own. 

I've discovered that we just don't need words between us.

* * *

The rain has long ceased, and the world is caught somewhere between night and morning as I wake again. For a moment, I'm disoriented, unsure of where I am and how I came to be here. It comes back to me quickly, though; I notice your slender form curled against mine, moonlight from the window casting a pale beam of silver over your features, and I smile a little and brush a strand of hair carefully out of your eyes, making as little movement as possible so as not to wake you. Under normal circumstances, I would be cold with just a sheet covering my naked form, but I can't remember feeling quite as warm as I do now. I turn onto my side and hold you a little closer, closing my eyes again. I can't remember the last time I felt this content, either. 

I want to tell you "I love you", because I do. Even though you're sleeping, I'm sure you'll hear me. But, words…

With you…words are never enough.


End file.
